I’m back, Internet World! Did you miss me? Don’t answer that.
Halfway into an extremely slow day at work, most of which has been spent reading cooking blogs, I have decided to resurrect “Something Done Right.” This time, though, I will be less rigorous, and only post things that turned out particularly well. Like this frittata, which transcended its humble recipe-free origins to become a lip-smaking good Monday dinner.
(Theoretically, there would be a picture of the dish here. However, the leftover half is in gladware in the fridge, delicious but not photogenic. So just pretend.)
Alton Brown favors quiche for his “refrigerator glue” applications, but I prefer the improvement in speed and healthfulness that comes from skipping the pȃte brisée. I took a cue from Mark Bittman and went for a more-vegetable-than-egg frittata. For this one, I poked my head in the fridge and came back with half an onion, assorted way-past-their-prime bell peppers, and some questionable shaved turkey. My intention was to chop some tomatoes as well, but after some deliberation (“How do I feel about eating moldy tomatoes if I cut off the moldy parts first?”) I tossed the poor buggers and grabbed canned tomatoes and garlic from the pantry.
I decided to pre-cook the vegetables to mask their declining quality, and I think that made all the difference between “eh…frittata” and “ooooooh…frittata.” I sautéed everything separately, not because I’m fussy like that, but because my largest nonstick pan is 9.5″ wide. Meanwhile, I whisked together eggs, egg whites, a generous pinch of salt, a sprinkle of cayenne papper, and a dash of ground thyme. (My thyme plant is still recovering from the “arctic blast” that hit Mississippi a few weeks back. I’m not going to further traumatize it with inappropriately-timed harvesting.) And you know what? The ground thyme was actually perfect for this.
Back to the eggs: standard frittata procedure, everything on the stove for a while, then under the broiler to finish. A minute into the broiling, after the top had started to firm up a bit, I pulled it out and grated some Swiss on top, then put it back in the oven. I pulled it out a few minutes later, golden brown and smelling strongly of burnt plastic. It turns out the phenolic resin handle on my skillet is not quite broiler-safe. My long-suffering roommate made no comment; at this point, he’s just happy I didn’t set anything on fire. (Don’t ask.) I waited a few minutes for the eggs to set, and for the smell to dissipate, then dug in. Delicious on its own, even better with a glass of good white wine, and a phenomenal end to a great MLK day.